Al-Rahman glanced over the room. “A most terrible thing, is it not? Four people dying here, cruelly. This is an unbearable thought. Those responsible will be caught, I’m sure, and punished. I have read the preliminary report of the doctor in charge. And of the police. No cameras, and the alarm system was turned off.”
“You have lived in the West, Colonel?” Dewaal inquired.
“A year in the United States and three years in London. Specializing in police matters. That is why I succeeded in resisting the American accent and cultivating the British. Many of my countrymen know it is an advantage to speak proper English. Especially in the Arab world, with its many variations of Arabic. Most of the Arab world is populated by backward peasants, who are mostly superstitious and do not understand the Sharia properly. Fortunately, the Saudi can show them the way to true civilization.” He glanced at Eekhaut. “Or toward our specific brand of enlightenment, if you wish.”
“What was the object of the prince’s visit to Holland?” Eekhaut wanted to know. “Did he need to familiarize himself with Dutch customs?”
The colonel ignored the implication. He said, “He was preparing a diplomatic mission. The Dutch people are hungrier than ever for the oil of the Middle East. They have developed highly sophisticated technologies. They are masters at dredging, for instance. Architecture, port construction, you name it. All this knowledge we want to apply in Saudi Arabia. And for many political reasons, we want to avoid being too dependent on the Americans. Hence we seek European know-how.”
“Might the murder have happened for political reasons, Colonel?” Dewaal asked, stepping out into the corridor.
The two men followed her. “I assumed,” Al-Rahman said, “that you expected to be confronted with a clear-cut case. A case of religious fanaticism. Christian fanaticism, for once. People who want to assure themselves of a place in the mercy of their equivalent of Allah.”
“We had been thinking along those lines,” Dewaal said cautiously.
“If such is the case, we consider the investigation will be finished when you arrest the members of this group.”
“Will that be sufficient for you? For your government?”
“That and the matter of confidentiality. We may offer to take some of the members of that group off your hands, to bring them to justice in my country, where they will probably get the death sentence. But your government will not stand for such a solution, so we will settle for a suitable conclusion.”
“It is customary for the bodies of crime victims to be examined by a pathologist. Could you give permission, Colonel?”
“The prince’s body?”
“Exactly.”
“This is an extremely delicate matter, ma’am. The body of the prince will have to be brought before an imam and purified. I’m afraid no medical examination would be acceptable.”
“As you wish,” Dewaal said. “On the other hand, this property will be searched by our technical unit.”
“Of course.” The colonel lowered his gaze slightly. “We will soon meet again, Commissioner, I’m sure.”
Eekhaut spoke up. “Colonel, I still have a question.”
“Yes, Chief Inspector?”
“I understand there are many princes in your country.”
“That is correct.”
“About how many?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean: how many princes are there in your country?”
“Oh,” Al-Rahman said, “something like a thousand. I assume someone is familiar with the exact number, and I can request such information if you want. But something like that, about a thousand.”
“Thank you, Colonel. That’s very helpful.”
After the colonel had left, Dewaal said, “You will attend the women’s autopsy, Walter, for your sins. And what about those princes? What do you care?”
“Oh, I thought I’d ask. Just one of those things . . .”
“No, tell me, what prompted it?”
“The Kingdom. You should see the movie. It tells us a lot of things about the colonel’s homeland. And the number of princes.”
“Get on with that autopsy. Full report. On my desk. In a jiffy.”
“Isn’t in my job description.”
“It is now.”
30
A TAXI DROPPED EEKHAUT off at the morgue, an appropriate gloomy building, dating from the late nineteenth century. It was in a neighborhood he hadn’t been to yet but that seemed affordable only to rich people. A cold north wind accompanied him inside, where decrepit 1960s decor welcomed him.
Behind a makeshift desk, an unshaven young man eyed him suspiciously. Pushing a cheap ballpoint pen into the breast pocket of his denim shirt, he raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Eekhaut asked where he might find the pathologist, who, two dimly lit corridors later, turned out to be a good-looking man in his early sixties whose name was De Vriend. “Guus,” the man added at once, as if the use of family names were strictly discouraged in this institution. He gave Eekhaut a firm handshake. “Those three young women? Yes, or what is left of them. You people always seem most interested in the worst cases. Anyway, come with me.”
From the cab Eekhaut had announced his visit by phone. He had spoken to a woman, who turned out to be the assistant pathologist, now waiting for them next to three steel tables in a cold examination and storage room. She looked pretty in a professional and distant way, but her legs under her lab coat offered Eekhaut a distraction from the inevitable horror he was going to see under the spotless white cloths that covered the tables.
“Are you aware, Chief Inspector, of what such an intense heat does to the human body?” De Vriend inquired. Eekhaut could not think of him as Guus, which sounded like the name of a favorite uncle. Perhaps this man was somebody’s favorite uncle or grandfather. But here he was the man who had to witness the most horrific results of mayhem.
The assistant approached one of the tables and removed the sheet. The charred remains were those of a child, judging by its size. It had a roughly human form but could have been alien, as far as Eekhaut could tell. It lay in a fetal position.
“The human body,” De Vriend explained, “consists largely of water. On combustion, most of this water tends to evaporate. Whatever remains of muscle tissue will contract, and the body shrivels.” He looked at Eekhaut and held out a surgical mask. Eekhaut shook his head. He had seen bodies like this before. Recently. “Do you want to be present during the examination, Inspector? I thought I’d ask. Most detectives prefer to have a coffee in the waiting room while we proceed.”
“I guess I can wait over there and hear what you have to tell me afterward.”
“You needn’t have come at all, Inspector,” De Vriend said. “I would have mailed you my findings when I’m done. Won’t take too long.”
Eekhaut knew why Dewaal had sent him here.
“There’s a sort of kitchen, back in the hallway, door to your right. Have a coffee. There are usually sandwiches as well and soft drinks. Help yourself. We are used to working long hours here, so it’s a bit messy. I’ll see you shortly.”
Dewaal had wanted to teach him a lesson in humility.
That’s what all this was about.
A lesson.
He found the kitchen, which looked like a set from a science fiction movie. White walls and kitchen cupboards, a high-tech coffee machine with a bewildering choice of beverages, a large fridge with sandwiches wrapped in clear plastic, and a plate of donuts and croissants. He didn’t want to think about Alien and nonhuman life-forms. Not here, not after having seen one of the victims.
He waited about an hour, reading magazines and staring at the walls. He drank two cups of coffee, ate a donut, used the toilet (again, a high-tech affair), read more magazines. Nobody came in. He wondered who the food was for.
Finally, De Vriend walked in, peeling off his protective coat and gloves and dropping them in a wastebasket. He smelled strongly of disinfectants. “Clear-cut case,” he said. He got a coffee from t
he machine.
“It is?”
“You’ll get my full report later,” De Vriend said. He added milk and sugar to his coffee. “We’re both addicted to sugar, my assistant and I.” He smiled. “That’s the only thing we have in common. That, and the fact that we cut up dead people. It’s almost like a bad joke.” He chuckled and sipped his coffee. “Death by shock, cardiac arrest, and poisoning due to smoke inhalation. The shock and cardiac arrest came with pain, I’m sorry to tell you. Poisoning was only secondary, not the primary cause of death. But they died quickly, thank God. Or thanks to whoever had deserted them during those last moments. Attempted examination of blood and stomach contents, but you’ve seen the state they’re in. From what my experience tells me, there’s been alcohol and cocaine involved, but I can’t be really sure.”
“Anything else you noticed?”
“Are you kidding, Inspector? My conclusion is that the times of the Inquisition and burning at the stake have returned. That’s my conclusion. That some really, really disturbed person did this to them, and that no sins these women may have committed can be bad enough to deserve such treatment.”
“Nothing physical that struck you?”
“Not under these circumstances.” De Vriend drank more coffee. “I see bodies all the time. It doesn’t bother me. Neither does the way people die. To me, they’re puzzles to be solved. In this case . . . well, I hope you find the animals who did this.”
“Plural?”
“Oh yes. I’m guessing several people were involved. There needed to be several to overpower them and the man who was with them.”
“How much alcohol and coke?”
“Like I said, I can’t tell. It’s just an assumption. But I hope they were stoned when they died—out of their minds.”
“We should be grateful for the little things,” Eekhaut said.
“Yeah. Usually, I’m the one to make that remark.” De Vriend raised an eyebrow. “Don’t want my job, do you?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“I wouldn’t want yours either, Inspector. Not really. I deal with the horrors after the facts. You, well, you have to deal with the real monsters.”
31
IT HAD THE LOOK of a park but was the garden of a private estate. It was adjacent to a slowly ascending pasture. The house itself stood at the end of a long path, wide enough for a car. It was dark. The story went that an insane architect had constructed the house just after the First World War, to escape from the world. Which, to some, might have indicated there was some logic to his madness after all. Although he had no family and few friends, the house had exactly thirteen bedrooms and four living rooms.
A world war later, the building and surrounding gardens were purchased by a wealthy and much more down-to-earth industrialist who saw it as a sound investment. By then the architect had been dead for several years. The estate was in the hands of the industrialist’s children now, who rented it out. They did so through an agency, so none of them knew who the tenants were or for what purpose the house was being used. For several months now, one of Maxwell’s companies had rented it, supposedly as a venue for training top employees. In fact, it was the Society of Fire who used the house and the gardens as its headquarters and refuge.
It was cold in the garden. Most plants had shriveled, waiting for spring. Frozen drops hung from tree branches, even this late in the afternoon. One path meandered from the house through the garden, splitting several times. The paths would undoubtedly lead somewhere, but no current visitor wanted to find out where. All of them had already endured enough divergent paths in their personal lives.
Each of the visitors had a name, none of which had been given to them at birth. No natural parents had stood by the crib and whispered it with emotion. These names were given to them the moment they first joined the society, along with the message that they and only they were the chosen ones, who would live through the coming final ordeal.
Each knew the others only by the name given by the society. Previous, mundane names had been left behind, at least whenever the members of the society convened. There were just a few exceptions to that rule. The man called Baphomet knew the real names of all members, but none of them had any idea who he really was. Anonymity was a safeguard against enemies and intruders. Curiosity was a sin.
They all realized their way of life and the choices they had made would bring them into conflict with earthly powers. But these earthly powers would soon be of no consequence anymore. At the end of times, soon now, the Creator would make his final judgment, and few would be saved.
Baphomet came to meet them at the house. He wore a dark suit, a white shirt, no tie, and a gray wool overcoat. All of them were dressed for the cold in parkas or long wool overcoats, thick corduroy trousers, scarves, and gloves. They resembled not so much a religious cult as a collection of amateur explorers, bound for the North.
“My friends,” Baphomet said, “may the greatness of our Creator envelop you all. His light will shine eternally on you.”
All present repeated that last sentence. Baphomet waited for a moment. Silence reigned in the garden. Then he said, “Let us discuss our problems.”
“You’ve chosen quite an interesting setting for this meeting, Baphomet,” a heavyset man said. He had crossed his arms over his chest. His given name was Tertullian, and he was proud of it, as he considered it an honorary title. It was an old name as well, taken from an early Carthaginian Christian philosopher who lived during the first century. “Why not inside the house? Isn’t it available? Or should we freeze out here before we’re finally consumed by God’s eternal flame?”
Baphomet pacified him with a simple gesture of his left hand. “We will enter the house in a moment, dear friends, and find there the food and drink the Creator has provided for us. However, this conversation we must hold in the garden. Remember the Garden of Eden? Look around you, my friends, and open your hearts. Do you not find the world beautiful, especially during this season? Is this material creation not a wonderful thing? Has not God inspired us to great deeds through his creation? All this, however, will soon end.” He cast a quick glance at Serena, who was standing in the front row, not in the least ill at ease at her first meeting.
“Maybe we should attempt to save at least part of this wonderful creation,” a small, blond woman suggested. “Why can’t we?”
Baphomet ignored her. She was one of his critics he had to endure among the group. She had several supporters among the women of her own age. Most others, however, didn’t think highly of her.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, “dark forces are gathering on the horizon.” He hated the cliché, but it seemed to work with this group. “We may have been overzealous, awakening certain members of the police force. We have always attempted invisibility, not appearing on their radar screens. Lately, however, we may have been somewhat careless. Some of us have, at least. I, however, bear full responsibility for this.”
“We’re all impatient,” Serena said.
“We are proceeding as planned,” Baphomet concluded. “The final and ultimate sacrifice that I promised you long ago is imminent. Meanwhile, we need to be discreet. We cannot afford the intrusion of the outside world.”
“The great sacrifice must be made,” a tall, gaunt man in his fifties said. “Otherwise, none of us will be saved.”
“All will happen as we planned,” Baphomet intoned. “I ask for patience.”
“Everybody should have the opportunity to be saved,” the blond woman insisted. “Everybody should have the same chances. That’s what democracy is all about.”
Why, Baphomet thought, do I allow this stupid woman to make inconsistent and irrelevant comments? Democracy? This is not and will never be a democracy. And what is she gibbering about? He knew that he could not silence her, though.
“The authorities are closing in on us,” another of the believers said, a skinny man who seemed perpetually worried. His name was Horothetes, and he was the one who had joine
d Courier in the Ardennes, along with some of the younger men.
“Thanks to those who have been so careless in their duties,” the blond woman chimed in.
Baphomet raised his hand. “The ritual we are all referring to was poorly executed. This could have been avoided. Again, I am taking responsibility.”
“All because Baphomet wanted to take care of some of his personal enemies,” Tertullian said. “He was the one who chose the sacrificed. He forgot a cardinal rule: not to let personal interests prevail.”
“The doctrine,” Baphomet replied sternly, “implies the unworthy should be punished. I made that choice, I did indeed. I found a number of unworthy in my proximity. Certainly, I did. Why would I look elsewhere, if these were available?” He looked around. “Is there anyone who doubts my choices? Let them speak now.”
Nobody volunteered, though Tertullian glanced around defiantly when he didn’t receive the support he was looking for.
“Good,” Baphomet concluded. “Because there cannot be any doubt in our minds or hearts. Not with the finality so close. In a moment, we will eat together and cleanse our souls and pray we may remain pure.”
“When will it be enough, Baphomet?” a frail older woman inquired. She seemed to suffer less from the cold than the others. “At what point may we consider ourselves ready for the purification?”
“Only when the last of days comes,” Baphomet said. “Only then will we know we have succeeded. Until then we must be vigilant and act.”
“Day by day the evil gains,” Tertullian said. “Our enemies are closing in, as was said here a moment ago. The risks of defeat increase. In prison, we will be tainted by the presence of so much corruption and evil. We must at all costs avoid being found out.”
“Last month’s ritual was a dangerous gamble,” the old woman insisted.
“There was a need to connect once again with the old traditions,” Baphomet repeated. “Again and again, we must remind ourselves who we are. We must be aware of our tradition. We are nothing without that tradition. This implies the necessity of rituals. Otherwise, we risk deviating from the chosen path.”
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